Unexpected
by harpychick
Summary: Elissa Cousland didn't always have a silver tongue, and some relationships were destroyed before she learned how to use it. Alistair/Morrigan, because I like the idea. Rated M, in the spirit of better safe than sorry.
1. Chapter 1

A/N - I make no claim to Dragon Age. I just can't seem to shake the addiction.

I can hear the Bard singing softly, the sly banter of the Assassin, the soon to be Warden Queen cementing their love. I can hear the gravelly rumble that is Shale lumbering the perimeter of camp, owned by the Cousland as thoroughly as if her control rod still functioned. The sodden dwarf and the stoic Sten, and the not quite dead Circle Mage, and they all _worship_ the deceitful bitch. All blinded by her lies, as once I had been. My only unlikely ally, the only one who had known her before she'd learned the benefit of a gilded tongue, a man who'd nearly sworn his life to hunting down my kind.

He is cleaning his armor, the silverite shell turned red-gold by the flicker of the campfire. The golden Bastard Prince, half brother of a golden King. Almost Templar, soon to be King, he watches his betrothed with what seems amused tolerance, as she flits from Bard to Assassin and back again. At first glance, you'd think him blind to the flirtations of his beloved, but I see him, beneath that affable exterior, the blinding smile, the idiotic jokes, I see him. He is harder than he once was, my golden nemesis. I see the steel in his eyes, as he watches a woman he despises toy with the affections of those who adore her.

He is silent in his antipathy, letting her believe he has forgotten, letting her believe he, too, adores her, is excited to wed her. She will teach him to be King, and in return, she will sit the throne beside him, pretending to love him, as he pretends to love her. They will fool Ferelden, they will fool each other, but he cannot fool himself.

A sly tilt of his chin as his eyes flick to mine, I only see because I watch him so closely. And I sigh, because he knows that I see, for he knows that I watch. Not long ago, there would have been anger, at myself, at him. Now there is resignation. I nod, and see his eyes grow warm, the chill melts, and his smile grows. He continues rubbing away the blood, removing the stain from his armor, and trying to scrub clean his soul. It is his time honored ritual, each night. His arms and armor sparkle by the end of it, and as the taint of guilt grows, his need expands, his skin scrubbed raw, his gear clean and tidy. As much order as he can make in his chaotic world.

I close my eyes tightly, turn my face back to my own fire. So many months I've traveled by his side. How many times has he thrown his shield in front of me, thrown _himself_ in front of me, to keep me from harm? I've lost count. So many times I've healed him, a skill begrudgingly learned from the sanctimonious, preachy Circle Mage, on the order of the Cousland bitch. A surprisingly intimate invasion of self, reaching in to knit tissue and bone, 'tis no wonder Mother never taught me, for she could not teach empathy, nor the selfless acceptance of pain it requires.

Wynne is no less an interfering old biddy, simply because she is admirable.

Keep him upright. This my order from the deceiving wench, once obeyed because I loved her, now because I cannot bear to see him fall. How were any of us to know the bond created by such an order, such an undertaking? Delving deep into both his mind and his body so constantly, it has faded our distaste of each other, and we have learned to fight as Templar and Mage, steady and sure, no longer untrusting.

She has come now to lay her hand on his shoulder, her voice soft and deceptive in his ear. He stiffens oh so slightly at her touch, his eyes cold again, before he forces a smile, forces interest, and turns toward her. She looks at him beseechingly, but his shoulders shudder in a sigh, and he shakes his head. He rubs his palm against his thigh in agitation, but all she hears is the promise of someday.

He yawns, packs away his armor despite the stains, and moves pointedly to his tent. She makes to follow, but he has only to raise an eyebrow at her, and she retreats. Despite the betrothal, they are not lovers, and I know that he does not even desire that. But she is necessary, is the Cousland bitch, to both he and I. So we all pretend.

I met his sister in Denerim, I heard the words _she _told him after. Had I cared then as now, I would have slapped her for such, though even now, I see the necessity of it. But he is colder now then he was, and much of it is her fault. I have felt his spirit strengthen, his resolve harden. He cares a little less about what is right, and a little more about what is necessary.

The night has grown quiet, only the rumble of Shale's steps to be heard, but it is a comforting sound, it means the monsters are not near. The canvas of my tent rustles, and I smirk slightly. Distanced from the main camp, my smaller fire is sheltered from view, and he sits on the grass with a sigh of relief. He grins up at me, and I know my eyes are soft, but I cannot help it. _Idiot_, I mouth at him.

He nods, and whispers "That's royal idiot, thank you." He is laughing silently, the cold steel hidden deeply. I reach over to run my fingertip across his wrist, sinking my senses deep into him. A tiny spark burn from the main fire, chapped skin from wet cloth on steel, left to dry in cold air, a strained muscle along his spine from twisting wrong with too much weight. The healing spell warms my hands as I lay fingers along his temples, flooding his flesh with my will, smoothing the tiny hurts away. Body healed, I dive deeper, and I am touching his soul, oh so gently, and here, too, I soothe, softly brushing away the bruises.

His arms curl around my hips, and he presses a kiss against my belly. A soft hum that thrills against my skin, left bare by scant robes and leather skirt. His hands glide up my ribs, until he grasps my torso tight, and pulls me hard against him, clutching. My hands in his hair, I let him cling, the scorn I would have felt once replaced by sorrow.

* * *

My heart is in my throat, my senses tuned to him, monitoring his wounds. She had left me at the gates, under Sten's command, but when have I ever been anyone's to command? Before the darkspawn even began to break through the gate, I was winging my way to Fort Drakon, where I was more needed than she knew. Slipping half into the Fade, I am a mere shimmer in the air beside him, fingertips brushing his jaw, bolstering his flagging stamina. They have been slogging through battle for hours, with little rest. I will not let my Templar fall, not now that we are so close.

The Archdemon is down, clinging to life by the barest breath. The Cousland bitch is reaching for her blade, casting a sidelong look at Alistair. I hear him laugh, so quietly it can't be heard beneath the labored breathing of the dragon.

He takes the sword from her hand. "This is mine to do, Elissa." He waves off her relieved protests. "You made me King. This is how I can be a true King, in my own right."

The death blow flares into the sky, Urthemiel's soul fleeing the dragon corpse, brushing against Alistair's briefly. Rather than fight with the Warden for possession, the old god flows on, and the barely conceived child welcomes it, melds with it, tugs the old god into the slumber of growth. My child…_our _child, has saved his life, his soul.

* * *

The ceremony is lovely. Queen Anora has dedicated her speech to the Grey Wardens who have given their lives to end the Blight, to Alistair. There is no body to bury, consumed by the blaze of the dragon's death. Elissa Cousland throws herself on an empty tomb, prostrate in grief. Her wailing is loud, long and wretched.

The cloaked man beside me snickers. "She really wanted that throne, you know." His hand is warm on the bare skin of my lower back. "The perfect touch, that the Landsmeet wouldn't allow her to have it without me."

My smirk is just as venomous, being able to strip the lying little strumpet of her dream of ruling as Queen. His hands come to rest on my hips, his mouth against my shoulder. His request, for taking part in Mother's ritual, in saving Urthemiel's soul, is to remain with us, to help raise our child. To protect me from Flemeth, when she made herself known again. And for reasons I cannot articulate, can barely stand to think on, I have agreed. Is it that I know he _will _protect me, or that I have no desire to give up his warmth? My Templar, protector, friend, my lover. I will keep him, and into his keeping, give my heart.


	2. Chapter 2

Apparently, this wasn't quite finished. I need to go into a bit more detail for some scenes, and I'd rather keep them all in the same "story". So I guess that makes this a series of one shots?

Thank you much for the reviews!

A/N Updated - couple of tweaks to try to get Alistair more into character.

* * *

His agitation is easy to read, hands scraping through his hair, tugging. Stumbled pacing that I'm sure he means to be stealthy, but is not. I bite my lip to hide my smirk, turn to face him over the mess of half finished poultices spread beside my fire.

"Come now, Alistair. After my efforts today to keep you alive, surely you don't believe that I intend to undo all that?" The smirk breaks through, widens at his flash of fear.

"Ha. No." He glares at me, or tries to. His feelings, I think, are too conflicted to maintain something so…easy, as a glare. His eyes soften, seeking something in mine. I let him look. With an uncomfortable pang, I realize that there is no way for him to find what he is looking for in my gaze.

"You wish to talk, then, of what happened today?" I keep my voice steady and even. This turn of events does _not_ bother me. Does _not_ discomfit me. I will not allow it.

He nods, and I stifle a sigh. "Does Wynne never heal you? Has she not revived you from the brink of death? What I have done is no different." In reviving him today, I'd delved further into Alistair, body and mind, heart and soul, then I ever imagined was possible to be in someone else. I'd had to repair damage done to his spirit as well as to his body before I could guide the two back together. Alistair's soul was…breathtaking. Bright and warm, with patches of cool shadows and hot pain. And I had basked in that warmth, absorbing it as I worked frantically to heal his body enough to house it again.

He shakes his head. "It is different, you know. I can feel how different it is, every time you cast on me." Laughter flashes across his face. "It hurts more, when you do it." He grins when my shoulders raise in a shrug. "It's like you're trying to punish me for getting injured." He sits, and his hand brushes against my arm. "I don't mind that, you know." The humor drains from his voice, his face becomes blank, and I can feel the deep breath he takes. "Because when you touched me deeper…when you healed…deeper, I could feel how much you wanted to take away the pain." A quiet whisper, his skin so hot against mine that I should have burns where his fingers rest.

"It is practical, is it not, that a healer should seek to relieve the pain of her patient?" I turn my face away, let the heat of the fire bring a tinge of red to my cheek. A deep anger bubbles up, and I can taste the venom, "Do not think, Alistair, that I've a care for you. Or that I've a want to be inside you like that." I brush his hand from my arm sharply. "I am-"

He cuts in, voice still low, "Morrigan, I know better." He is solemn and pained, "I just…I don't know, thought a 'thank you' was in order." He blows out an exasperated breath. "You saved me. I know it's just what you've been told to do, that you think Elissa was stupid for not making use of your natural talents." His fingers tug his hair, nerves riding him hard, and something is floating in his eyes, just out of reach.

"Maker, I truly am a fool." I flinch imperceptibly. He is not the only fool in this camp, or his distress would not be making me squirm. Still, I do not disagree. "I don't know why I even bothered." I glare at him until his eyes close, his face drops into his hands. "Never mind. Just…never mind."

For an instant, he looks at me as if he would reach out again, and for an instant, I wonder if I would push him away if he did. But the moment breaks, he pulls back, and stands, brushing the dirt and leaves from his trousers, turns to walk away. Casually, over his shoulder, and more tenderly than I expect, "Still. Thank you."

I watch Elissa speak to him, hear her laughter sing out across the camp, and I growl to myself. He can keep his stupid warmth. I don't want it.


	3. Chapter 3

"Morrigan!" I am halfway through constructing an ice spell when Liliana's cry reaches me. Frantic, I spin, barely hanging onto the incantation, and fling the ice into the Ogre that has somehow snuck up on me. Barely slowing, it lowers its head to charge. The crackle of frost glinting in the sun is oddly pretty against the diseased flesh, there is no time to do more than watch, though the pain comes unexpectedly into my side, shoving me from the path of the slavering beast.

The mud catches me, so that nothing is broken, anyway. I bite my lip on landing, and can taste blood, lift a hand to wipe if off, and realize I've only smeared it. The Ogre regains its feet, shaking off the impact. There is red muck flinging through the air, a flash of silver, coated in it. I clench my jaw. The _idiot_ has managed to stun it, his shield crunching into its face, but I feel the blood trickle down the back of his neck, his skull cracked by the ground on the initial charge. He doesn't wait, longsword driving up the creature's nose, into its brain. Not the most elegant kill, but effective. He stumbles back, blade sagging, body sagging, and he is lucky that the battle is over around us, the few stragglers herded by Liliana's arrows, put down by Sten's sword.

I stare at him. He is battered and bloody, and just threw himself in front of a charging Ogre to save me. He is dying of a head wound, bleeding freely into his brain, and Wynne is on the other side of the world, she can't get here quick enough to _save _him, even if she knew he was in trouble. And I can't stop staring.

It would be easier to let him die.

His eyes meet mine, and they are trusting. How can he not remember that he doesn't trust me? That he despises me? Where did this trust _come _from? I wrap my arms around myself, take an involuntary step forward. I let the anger rise, the hate. I let him see it on my face, twisting my lips into a vicious smile, hollowing my eyes. His gaze on mine is steady, but I cannot read it. His fingers flex toward me slightly. "Are you so sure of yourself?" I hiss, "so sure you know me so well?" Ah, there is the truth, flooding his eyes.

It will be _easier_ to let him die.

Mother be damned. Maker be damned. Urthemiel be damned. I cannot do this _again_.

Something squirms in my stomach, twisting up to clench at my heart. A vivid flash of a long road without him, lacking hooked barbs, lacking the flush of red to his face, his sputtered retaliations.

The light is dimming, his awareness fluttering. My fist clenches in time to the slowing beat of his heart. My teeth grind against an overwhelming need to _fix_ him.

_No. _Let him die. Let him take into the Fade this perverse want of his smile, of his misplaced trust. I am not his friend, he is not mine. _I am not so weak! _I am not some hedge-mage apostate fleeing in fear from the wrath of the Chantry. I am a Witch of the Wilds, a title that _means _something, even if all of Thedas has forgotten.

_He is dying. _I don't _care_.

I stumble towards him, fall back into the mud beside him. The last glimmer in his eyes flits from resignation, to hope. Such a fragile thing, hope.

I am not gentle, reaching into him. My grip on his spirit is grasping and tight, if a soul could wince in pain, he does. My anger burns through us both, searing us together. The spell to heal his flesh is a clap of light, and I push hard into him. The pain of his knitting wound flashes through me, I scream silently into the abyss, sharing it with him. He is warm around me, chains of _affection? need? want? _fire, binding. They wrap around us, his fire to my ice, and demons that I don't acknowledge having howl outside the cocoon of us.

I touch the shadow in him, and he kindles the light in me, as I shriek out his pain. I force him to see _me_, to look at what I chose, before my mind betrayed me.

_It doesn't matter_.

He forces me to see, as well. My struggle. My choice. The empty hole inside me that somehow, he has slipped a bit of his warmth into. He touches my light, and it flares just a little brighter against the dark.

_See? You knew the price this time, and you paid__ it _anyway_. _

I wrench myself free of him, back into my own body. I am sobbing, wracked with the fading pain of the spells. Laying in the mud, his face shines with a triumphant relief, and I want to smack him. Instead, when his arms come around me, I allow him to cradle me, weep against the cold gritty armor of a despoiled Templar, for just a moment before I push him away.

I am weak.


	4. Chapter 4

Elissa hands me the book, a wicked smile on her lips. "Done."

A sigh escapes me, of relief, of grief, maybe both. I'm not sure anymore. A sliver of shock shivers down my spine as I fan the pages absently. "Thank you, my friend."

Her face shutters for an instant, until her smile turns warm. Her hand on my shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie. "Of course." She winks. "Just don't leave me alone with Wynne again, hey? She got into me about my relationship with Alistair." A huff of breath, blowing her hair from her face. "Duty this, duty that. As if we aren't doing our sodding duty." She grimaces. "As if there is a 'relationship' to interfere with that duty."

My lips quirk, and I laugh, shrugging. "Such is the nature of the beast, friend." I tucked the book into my pack. "I will never again ask that you leave me behind. I would have saved you from the Circle Mage, save you'd have lost me to Mother." _She is dead_. The humor falls from me, my fingers twist in agitation. "I will begin study of the grimoire immediately. I will be prepared for the day she returns."

She saunters back to the main fire, pulling Liliana into her orbit. She is clever, is the Cousland, to so bind her followers, through affection and friendship, respect and love. I glance briefly at the elf. Or through sex. Her binding on Zevran is tighter than the assassin realizes. Ah, but 'tis is not _my _concern. Her tie with me is debt owed, blood bound. I owe her my loyalty for this reprieve from my Mother's plan, and she has earned it, to the end.

My gaze comes back to the book. Glances off the cover, and skitters back to watch the others. The Templar is cleaning his armor, and I watch, fascinated. Perhaps 'tis simple fancy, but I imagine the blood he is removing is Mother's. He scrubs hard, a fierce scowl marring his face. The assassin bends close, a low murmured comment I can't make out, and is shooed away, the frown deepening.

In the firelight, he is drenched in red, the flicker of shadow over his bowed shoulders is mesmerizing. I want to look away, but I cannot. I see his sword drawn and swinging, cutting through Mother with ease. Or perhaps she took another form, and he impaled a bear, or has slain a dragon. A flicker of distress slides through me as I picture him pitted against her.

Fear for _him_. Grief for _her_. Maybe both. I am not sure anymore.

He is obedient, the Templar. He wields his blade at Elissa's whim.

I grit my teeth against an onslaught of pain that burbles up from my chest, against tears that threaten to form. She is _dead, _at _my_ request. _Why does necessary hurt_?

Did she not love me at all then, to have such a use for me? Was I never to be anything but a vessel? I had always seen her love reflected in the lessons of survival. Did she truly feel that it was unnecessary to invest any such emotion in me? That I would have no need of it, nor need of knowledge or experience, as it would only serve a hindrance to her goal? Had I blinded myself so completely, as lacking in familial affection as Alistair? Do we truly have that in common?

Anger curls up through me, tiny flecks of embers bursting into being on my skin. Fists clench tightly. A bitter thought strikes, that Mother's lacking lessons have left me susceptible to something so damaging as unprepared affection.

_She has abandoned me._

I am still staring at him, backlit by the fire, his features blurred, shadowed. He never had a family, and he yearns for one. I never had any save Mother, and I never wanted. What a fool, to desire to be hurt! What a fool, to throw himself before Flemeth.

_He will abandon me_.

Fury boils over, and my body thinks for itself. I am halfway to the main camp, to him, before I realize I've moved at all. This is…not good. Everything peripheral is blurry, and everything is peripheral save him. My focus is honed on him, and I want to hurt him. I need to hurt him, for _hurting_ her, for _killing_ her, for hurting me. I care not that I asked it, nor that it may not even have been he who struck the blow. I cannot even begin to define my own hurts, only that he is the source.

I don't need him. _He doesn't need me_.

He watches me approach, and his face is dark, flushed with fury of his own. Eyes glitter, armor set aside, he stands to meet me on equal footing, though he and I, we are not equal. He is dirt beneath the heel of my boot, _or I beneath his_, and I will show him this.

I growl, deep and feral, and move serpent-quick, but still he catches my hand before I can strike him. He is crushing my wrist, _and it hurts_, uses it to jerk me bodily against him. I brace the other against his chest, bunching the cloth of his shirt, glaring into his face as he glares in return. The heat that rolls between us is scorching, arid and hard, driven by fear, driven by grief. Whatever thought boils behind the anger in his eyes, it is a match for mine.

"Shouldn't you be laughing?" he spits at me, eyes narrowed, grip flexing, grinding the bones in my wrist. This close, I am overwhelmed by the scent of him, soap and steel, sweat and blood. As familiar to me now as the heat of his skin, the scars on his body. I will not give him the satisfaction of my pain. I don't even tug against his grip, letting him hold me trapped against him. "Why, Morrigan? Why do you want your _mother_ dead?" How could he understand, who has only wanted to _have_ a mother, not had the reality of _my_ mother.

"'Tis hardly of concern to you, Alistair." Bitten out, voice cold, I want to repel him from his questions. I do not like the chords he is about to strike, and still grasping his shirt, I thump his chest with my free hand. "You've no need to have a care for an apostate Abomination like Flemeth." I am lost, this confusing morass of _feelings_ that I'd no idea I could have, and all I can do is lash out at him. He could have died, and I wasn't _there_. She did die, and I wasn't there. She needed to _be _dead. I cannot afford loyalty to Mother, not in this.

Why am I not numb? I want to scream, but it is caught in my throat, clogging my breath. I should feel only relief, a wanting to get on with my life, no longer servant to Mother's plans, her schemes. Instead, I roil with unexpected conflict, pain, wistful desire for a mother who had not planned to usurp my flesh.

"You stupid bitch. I couldn't care less about Flemeth! What I care about is why you felt the _need _to have your _mother_ killed." Just as cold as I, is Alistair, a harsh, gravel rumble in his anger, grip still firm, though at least his isn't flexing his grasp anymore, it still hurts, but it is drowned by the feel of his armor-less form, holding me against him, the feel of his heat beginning to rush through me, the steel flesh of the warrior's body beneath my hand. And it is drowned by the insistent hum of sorrow that reverberates against my bones, seems intent on killing me with confusion.

"Ah." I want so badly to remain angry, rigid and indignant in this most familiar emotion. I fear my time with this idiot Templar has dulled me, scarred me in unexpected ways. I am stricken by the knowledge that his anger dredges up an odd mix of guilt and regret, that I cannot cleanly face him.

I hate that he sees through me, a sluice of concern behind his fury.

"Alistair! Morrigan! What in the name of the Maker's Bride are you doing?" Elissa is staring at us, they are all staring at us, in the middle of the main encampment, the spectacle we have created in forgetting our surrounds. His eyes harden further, if that is possible, at her voice cutting into our fog. The innocent Chantry boy sneers at her, sparks again into seething anger.

"Nothing," he snarls, throwing my wrist from his grip. I release my own grasp an instant later, springing back from him, refuse to cradle my rapidly bruising arm. I stare him down as he sees the blooming darkness, at the sudden shame writ clear on his face. He drops his gaze to the ground, flushes red. "Oh, Maker, I'm -"

"Morrigan, Alistair has injuries that need tending. The stubborn man wouldn't let Wynne touch him. Apparently her collapse after the battle made him uncomfortable with her expending more energy." Elissa grumbled, curious eyes flicking from me to him and back again. "Whatever problem the two of you are having _now_, be a dear and sort him out for me, please?"

He looks sick at her words, eyes flash to meet mine, dart away. He shakes his head at me, whispering so low only I know he is speaking. "No. Not until we've talked." The crash from furious to pleading is sudden, and I blink at him. A slight decline of my chin acquiesces to his request. I spin on my heel, stalk back to my corner of hell to wait for him.

* * *

He can't help but wonder why he needs to tell her, knowing that it will tear loose the trust in Elissa that she clings to so deeply. He was surprised, arriving at the tiny little shack in the depths of the Kocari Wilds, surprised at the mission - to kill Flemeth, surprised at the offer of grimoire for life, not so surprised that the bitch took the deal. It was the easy way out, and it didn't matter to Elissa Cousland who would suffer in the long run, so long as she got her way in the now.

The Witch's pale yellow eyes regard him warily, her mood shifting wildly from sorrow to rage, each change etched clearly on her face. He doesn't understand, exactly, why Flemeth had been marked for death, and it made his blood boil to find that Morrigan was the driving force behind the quest. Yet he was not pleased at Flemeth's escape, nor at Elissa's duplicity in the matter.

Ok, maybe he didn't know the details of why, but he was smart enough to work out that there was _something_ at stake for the demon eyed Witch, perhaps a great big something. He did not_ like_ that Elissa's deal might render her more vulnerable than she already was.

_Huh. Cause Morrigan is so vulnerable, she might claw my eyes out for thinking that. _

"Your mother…she offered Elissa her grimoire, in exchange for her life. She said she'd leave you be until it wouldn't effect us in our fight against the Blight."

Morrigan smirked. "I am hardly surprised she would make such an offer." Twisted though it was, her smile failed to reach her eyes, failed to ease the coldness. "I imagine, when faced with the prospect-"

"She took it."

He flinches to see realization break over her, drowning her. For months, they had protected one another, helped each other, he has given his life over into her hands time and again, and she has done the same. He is her shield, her Templar. She is his Mage, apostate though she be, so…his Witch?

She is pale, more than usual, expression blank. She presses her fist to her chest, directly over her heart. Confusion is thick and palpable. She shifts, foot to foot, but stumbles, and suddenly he is the only thing keeping her upright. In the circle of his arms, she turns blindly, face turned up toward him, but she isn't seeing him. He doesn't think she sees anything. She is whimpering, each breath a pained whine, more animalistic hurt than human.

He doesn't know how to protect her from this.

"She will come for me. I don't know when. She will steal me, and no one will know. No one will see the difference." Her voice is flat and empty, as empty as her eyes. He has seen dolls with more passion. _Why isn't she angry? _She had been ready to dismember him earlier, and now? Nothing.

Her laughter startles him, his hands reflexively tightening on her shoulders. Even that sounds hollow, bland, her natural thorns missing completely. His heart aches to see the Witch so defeated.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N - Follows right on the tail of ch 4

_

* * *

_

_This cannot be true._

I am nothing. The anger, the grief, the confusion, it all falls away, drops into the void. She lied. She _lied, _and I suspected nothing. I trusted her, and on her word, dropped my guard, and it would have stayed down.

_Why? _

_She didn't want me either. _

Something roars up from the void in me, stilling the conflict, filling the emptiness with a soothing numbness. I will pay for the calm, but for now, it holds back the crushing weight of the Fade, allows me to keep the demons at bay.

Eventually, tiny pained whimpers filter through the haze. A moment more before I realize my own throat is the source, not a wounded animal beyond the tree line. Even longer before I notice I am held in the loose cage of Alistair's arms, firm and corded from constant battle. The warmth of him that I have come to crave with such need seeps into me, the burn of his wrath cooled.

_You cannot have it. Cannot keep it. _

He will leave me, I am incapable of giving him a reason not to. _Why would I want him to stay? _All the power in the world at my disposal, all the skill of a Witch of the Wilds, and I will be alone, until the day Mother comes to steal my body away. Damn that bitch for making me _trust_ her! For infecting me with a desire for companionship, for friendship. An urge to drift on occasion into the main camp, to banter with the elf, to subtly exchange gossip with Liliana.

Laughter bubbles up, thick and heavy with disappointment. What welcome could I possibly feel now, when it was so tentative anyway, and _she lied_. They would all know it, and the only one who cared enough to tell me was Alistair.

"Talk to me, Morrigan. Let me in. Let me help."

Fingers cup my chin, pulling to force my eyes to his. His words push against my skin from the inside, splitting me open. I feel myself spilling into his touch. His light calls me, and I hate him for this, for not allowing me to slam closed the door to emotion.

Love is a weakness, and one that Elissa exploits with a genius to match Mother's, far beyond my own not inconsiderable skills. He does not give me a chance to slough it away, instead pulling me into his aura, keeping me trapped in his arms, in his ever closing grasp.

"I am tired of playing games that I cannot seem to win, Alistair." My murmur is quiet, even I can hear the defeat in it. "I did not want to know of friendship, nor of affection, nor of love." My palm on his chest, feeling the blunt thump of his heartbeat. "I was foolish enough to trust in the feeling she inspired."

"Yes, well, trusting her? Not the best move." Ah, yes, the ever obedient Templar, who is stained by her demands. He is only her creature in deed, not in heart. He has stood where I am now, staggered by realization of her deceit.

_Did it make him feel as dirty as I do?_

"So I learn." He is very close, a simple stretch up onto my toes would bring my lips to his. I am tempted, imagining a moment how his mouth might taste. Can he take the numbness from my limbs, infuse me with a hope of being worthwhile? When everything I've been taught, everything I've known, everything I've lived has proven to be inadequate to survive the world outside the Wilds, I am, for an instant, stumbling blindly, and it is tempting to claim his light as a guide.

No.

His arms fold tightly around me, drawing my body tight to his, cheek pressed to my hair, warm hands stroke up and down my back. His is the only embrace I've known, no longer uncomfortable, still a weakness. The creatures of the Wilds do not hug, do not give comfort. Mother's arms were never a haven, never offered as such.

_Why does he feel like my only chance of getting clean again?_

I have no faith in the Maker, but as I've come to learn, neither much does Alistair. Or, say rather that he has little faith in the Chantry, and the Maker has turned his gaze away. Perhaps the remnants of the Old Gods can be found, preserved. Perhaps Urthemiel can be reborn, and I've far more faith in that.

I will not be allowed to walk away. Disregard turmoil, disregard betrayal. Duty compels, and I am laden by its chains, as surely as the Wardens are. It matters not what I would have, any more than what he would. We are here, he and I, and our duties lead us side by side. Perhaps the weight of it can be carried between us, briefly.

_Until we are torn asunder._

For the first time, my arms lift around his neck, and I sink into him, this, us. I will need this, for sake of duty. But I think I will not make it such a hardship for either of us. I feel his shock in the new stiffness of his body, but he accepts soon enough. For the first time since my childish attempts at affection were strongly rebuffed and discouraged, I wrap _my_ arms around another, clasping behind him. For the first time, I show him that however begrudgingly, I do return the affection in some measure.

I may be weak, but I am still practical. _She_ could not persuade him that the sky is blue, let alone convince him to complete the ritual. That will be mine to do, and this, perhaps, the only way.

There is a flare of disquiet in me, and I push it away hard. Neither grief nor guilt can be allowed to dissuade me.

'Tis a relief, to realize that he doesn't need me to maintain my composure, doesn't want me to show him a false strength. A relief that his arms stay tight around me when the numbness falls away, when the crashing tides of despair, betrayal, denial, abandonment, loss sweep me under, a relief that I don't have to hold it in, that he will hold back the demons for me. There is release, in pushing my face into his chest and letting free the keening wail that has been trapped in my throat since Elissa handed me Mother's book. His quiet words are nonsense against my hair as he holds me, lets me sob out my hurt into him, takes it all unflinching, still not quite understanding, but enough for now.

It is not such relief as resignation to realize that while I have to make him mine, 'tis something I _want_, in places inside me that I have been hiding from myself. He is a fool, but I am no less so. He is obedient to her, but in the name of his duty. He is boneheaded, and prone to drawing heavy attention in combat, with his shining armor and challenging roar, but I am here to keep him going, mend his breaks, hold him upright when he falters.

That reminds me. A healing spell flashes through him, fixing the damage done in whatever battle took place, as it was not against Mother. Brushing against him, I feel his sorrow, guilt, and hope. And then I do stretch up onto my toes, ghost my lips lightly over his, not quite touching. His eyes widen as I breathe him in, sweat, blood, steel and the lightning fizz of Templar magic.

There is something sweet in the way he pulls me in, cradles my face in his palm, takes away the sliver of space between our mouths. It is tentative, his first kiss. It is cautious, my first kiss. It lingers, slight movement and quiet sighs, my fingers in his hair.

When we part, he blushes, his touch still tracing softly along my cheek. "Maker, that was…was that ok?" He looks a little panicked, worried at the timing. "I didn't…blast, I'm an idiot, I didn't think, and then I…oh, I am a fool."

Smirking, I tap his chest with my fingertips. "A fool, yes. But not an unwelcome one, in this case." He will come to my tent if I ask him, for fear of adding to the burden of rejection Elissa has handed me, on top of Mother's motives. But he…he is not ready. I will not use guilt when love will do better. I briefly, chastely press my lips once more to his, reinforcing my words, then "Good night, Alistair."

His smile is brilliant. "Good night, Morrigan."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N - Thank you for the reviews! I had to give one a try from Alistair's view.

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He is hemmed in on all sides by darkspawn, putrid creatures who pour taint out of their bodies in sprays and streams of red-black blood, as his sword sheers through them. An occasional jerk to bring it unstuck when he lodges it into bone, his shield crunching into diseased bodies. It almost feels like a dance, and he is more graceful than usual, his heavy plate armor still stacked beside his tent, waiting to be cleaned from the toil of the day.

A white-fire burn lances across his shoulder, a Shriek's claws score, but pain is too familiar to make him pause. He lets his swing carry him round, adding weight to the blow that strikes head from shoulders, not even waiting until the body hits the ground before he is off, lunging shield first into the next cluster of monsters.

He revels in the movement, the burn of muscle, ache of lungs, the way his body responds to his demands. It is so much _easier, _he thinks, to fight.

A heavy blow of a Genlock's mace reminds him why he wears his steel shell, echoing along his bones. A turn, a swing, and the mace thumps to into the churned mud, still clutched tightly by a hand no longer attached to a body.

In the ease of battle, there is no thought, only movement. This, he is good at. This, he is very good at. There are no tricky words to stumble over, unable to convey intent. His sword speaks loudly enough, its whirring song of splitting flesh, the percussion of broken bones played on his shield. This his birthright, far more suitable than a throne and a crown, whose distant reality slips closer each day. Here, his blood surging in kinship, he is purified, washed clean of the filth Elissa Cousland immerses him in, it seems like each time he turns around. Here, in the hot spill of a Hurlock's entrails, is his duty, plain and simple. There can be no confusion, no morality.

Kill them. Kill them all.

In the acid splash of gore, there are no restless memories, stirring and churning in his belly. No vivid flashes of a Witch's tears, no sudden memory of the heat of her mouth moving against his, the softness of her body in his arms.

On the battlefield, he is a force of nature, not a shy, sheltered Chantry-raised naïve fool who doesn't know how to lead. He is disciplined, powerful, he is a strong, heavily muscled, physically imposing man, not an awkward boy who doesn't know how to talk to a woman. He can level a dozen foes at fifty paces with a wish and a prayer, and he can't think of a way to tell the Swamp Witch that he wants to kiss her again.

She scares him, and he is pretty sure she is hiding something from him. She is all thorns and blades, sharp tongue and cutting wit, and she is quite willing to tear into him with both. He trusts her with his life, but there is something more, he can't pin it down, and that should _bother _him. It would, if he let it.

Since learning of the deal between Elissa and Flemeth, Morrigan has become muted, a pale version of the spiky Witch he knows. Her magic has a strange taste, bitter and fey, more cautious then it should be. Her despair gnaws at him, even as her eyes search, looking for answers he doesn't have. He thinks that the fragile something between them would wither under further mistrust, and he is tired of always being alone. At least she is honest in dealings with him, confused as they may be.

A jarring blow into his side, sawing through muscle in a red hot flare, abruptly reminds him that yes, the battle is still going on, and no, he hasn't done a very good job of not being distracted.

The sudden chill that chases the pain away, knitting his flesh in an instant is as familiar now as his own heartbeat. He glances over, watches her grimace at the pain of it, before she turns back to her own battle, lithely dancing between the clumsy blows of monster warriors. She moves nearly as smoothly as Zevran, coiled and deadly in the shadows.

She is good at this too. Corpses slump at her feet, some frozen, some charred, some actually exploded. He admires her movement, stalking her prey, darting bolts of arcane power jabbing into them, felling them neatly.

She kills with more ease than she heals. Compassion is foreign to her, her life won by tooth and nail, the cost in uncounted corpses. She seeks none of the acceptance he desires. Her sharp tones and sharper words seem designed to drive others from her company, leaving her to a solitude she seems content enough with. It is her comfort zone, being alone. He doesn't think she knows _how _to be at ease among people. How could she? She never had a chance to learn. _Killing Templars doesn't count as company_, her batty old witch mother certainly never taught her how normal people act.

She did have a point, that the strong survive best. _They _were strong, and at Elissa's side, he often felt that they were only partially in the right. Were it not for the Blight - _whatever it takes -_ they would be the villains. But they have survived, against all odds, by their strength. As much as he might despise Elissa, hate her tactics, she would gather armies, gather allies, give them a chance to prevail. She might sacrifice everyone in her path to get to the Archdemon, but she would get there. _Easiest doesn't make it best! _By strength of arms, and a willingness to bull through, regardless of casualty. It was certainly not righteousness that would win them the day.

Morrigan confuses him. He hated her. He remembers that clearly, but he can't remember exactly why, when he feels her burrow into his soul, binding him to flesh when he is mortally wounded, her mocking disdain nowhere to be found, her broken affection still the most anyone has given him since Eamon sent him to the Chantry. _I should hate her still_. But he can't. She has changed, and so has he.

The yellow of her demon eyes haunts his dreams. At least, the ones the Archdemon doesn't stake claim to first. His nights are restless, always waking from images that twist his stomach, good or bad, depending on who has stolen his Fade each night. He wakes from the dragon-dreams ready to vomit, and sometimes he does. Other times, he can't look at her, fearful she knows, his face flushed by shame and want.

His full attention is brought back to the reality of combat, a loud _crack_ as Morrigan's last ditch backup spell flares around her, the cluster of darkspawn reeling back, stunned. She is exhausted, her power reserves depleted. Her frost slick staff is the only thing keeping her on her feet, and the creatures won't stay stunned for long.

He is moving before he can even take all this in, before he can think that he needs to be by her side. That he needs to be her shield right _now_.

He is too late. The adrenaline spike is not enough to get him to her in time to deflect the heavy mace from thudding across her shoulders, knocking her senseless to the ground. He is already screaming for Wynne when he reaches her, _too late_, standing over her limp form as the darkspawn throw themselves onto his blade.

_What do I do?_

Surprisingly, Oghren is the one to answer his unspoken question, the burly dwarf sobered by combat and covered in blood. "Keep her breathing, ya sodding pike twirler."

"What? How?" Distant memory claws at him, they have been too long with Mage healers for the skill barely learned to return easily, but finally it does. His clumsy fingers find her pulse, and that is a relief. Gulping air, he tilts her jaw, mouth to hers, and breathes into her, only to feel it rush against his cheek. _Idiot. Blasted fool_. He pinches her nose closed and tries again, this time her chest rises as his empties.

He rears back to call, his voice a shriek, "WYNNE!" Back to the Witch's mouth, breathe, _don't die_… Fingers to her fluttering pulse again, has it slowed? The stutter of her heartbeat against fingertips fails, he breathes his desperation into her. "Please." Hands on her chest, he learned this so long ago, how many? Count. Make her heart beat. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe.

"Wynne is coming, she'll be here as soon as she can." Breathe. "Elissa is down too."

It comes out a grunt between heartbeat and breath, "I don't care." _Please don't die, you can't die._ _I _need _you_. It was his fault. He shouldn't have strayed so far, too far to get to her. The image of the solid crunch of the mace against her unarmored back whips through his head, her blank face as she fell, the sickening smile of the fanged creature who hurt her, looming over her to bring its weapon down on her head, to kill her.

Focus. Breathe. Pulse. Ah, there. It flutters once…twice. Fails again. He pushes harder on her chest, the bones beneath his hands creak, almost crack. Too hard. _I need you_. Brea-

A burst of Wynne's power slides past him, seeking the prone Witch, finding her. She gasps, pulling the air from his lungs into hers, eyes opening wide, blindly. The instant they do, her own power rips into him, healing herself, dragging him with her into the depth of her magic.

It has never been like this before. Always he has felt his pain seeping away, taken from him by the Witch as she healed him. Now his fleshly wounds are incidental as she takes his strength, and he feels, finally, what healing him does to her. The abyss that is familiar with her voice now hears his as he roars into emptiness, the agony of her swiftly healing wounds is unbearable. _I need you_. Bear it he does, mouth still locked to hers, a hand on her chin, the other in her hair, one long breath that she takes from him, that he gives to her.

He sees her, all of her. Dark with flares of light. Practical, powerful, strong. Insecure, inexperienced, innocent. Wounded.

Why is it he can never protect her from what hurts her the most?


	7. Chapter 7

At long last...

A very very heartfelt thank you! to HopeLearningSerenity for agreeing to be my shiny new beta.

I like to think I'm back in the right mindset for this story, but I'm still bouncing around a lot, and I'm finding it hard to keep the character voices in the right story... I am still working on all the stories that are not marked complete, I just can't begin to say when they will update.

All the reviews are so appreciated :D, as are the favorites!

* * *

Instinct is all I have, grabbing onto the Veil, pulling the power of the Fade into myself, the healing spell sizzling through me like a jolt of lightening. The intimately familiar strength breathing through me is my anchor, holding me to sanity as I taunt the demons, kept just beyond their reach. I should not dare this, but the buoyant warmth goads me on, I trust it to safely allow me to pull more power than I have in weeks, my emotions a disaster, a lure for the creatures beyond the Veil.

I know better than to taunt them, truly. The demons who stalk me don't forget, nor do they forgive such impertinence. This safe haven cannot last, but the warmth makes me invincible, the will behind it maintaining the barrier between the Fade and my flesh. I am free to claim my magics, free of worry or fear.

_I need you. _

I am not surprised that he is the glow that wraps about me, threading through my soul as my spell pulls us deeper into each other. That he is the shield behind which I am protected from my nature, here in the playground of demons. He is the voice who calls me back, the symphony of pulse and throb, beating heart and needy breath.

oOo

He flops down by the fire as if he is welcome, as if he belongs. I find it difficult to deny that he does. Smile tight, muscles tense, stunned disbelief in his eyes. He rubs the back of his neck, rubs where his armor chafes, red lines on calloused skin, near to scars. The distance he keeps between us is a harrowing relief, as my body itches to edge closer, to lay healing fingers on his hurts. It irritates me, this _want_, which seems to take control of my flesh, drives me with urges I have no desire to act upon.

_Truly? No desire?_

"What is it that you want?" A fine edge to balance, this knowing. I can ill afford to drive him from me, to turn his affection into antipathy, knowing full well I will require his willing service in the end days. But _this,_ this gods cursed _devotion_, this want to _please_ him, to keep him healthy, and whole, and _happy_! I cannot bear this.

_You will fail him._

Of course I will. He asks too much of me for it to be any other way.

"I wanted to make sure you're ok." His eyes are not wary enough for my liking. Too apparent is his trust, ill placed in me. Why must he gift me with this burden?

"I am fine." _I am fractured. _Pulled apart by duty and fear. "I've no need to be coddled, Alistair. You may return to…" a flick of my hand, gesturing back to the main camp that, admittedly, holds little to attract him. "Whatever it is that you do."

I want to cling to him, wrap myself in the curl of his arms and sob, thank him for his part in saving me, beg him to shield me from all that hurts. 'Tis the very last thing I will do.

"You nearly died today." Burning fingers claw at me, even as he withdraws the hand he never actually extended to touch. His concern sends shivers coursing through me, a plague of both mind and body; _I cannot allow him to weaken me so_.

A tight smile in the face of his worry. "If I did or did not, it matters little."

"So you think you can tell me, after all that, that you're fine, and I will believe you?" A disdainful snort, unusually directed at me. I find myself longing for the simplicity of the days it was a common occurrence.

"No, Grey Warden. I am telling you 'tis not _my_ survival that is important, in the larger skein. 'Tis yours, and loathe as I am to admit, Elissa's as well. _You_ will end the Blight, not I." I cannot bear to look him in the eyes, cannot bear to watch his face, "No misplaced need of yours to see me hale can change that very real fact."

"Misplaced-"

"Most assuredly." It twists inside me, the desire to lay my hand on his cheek, to feel his blood flush warm beneath my touch.

"What was that, then? You needed me, too. I felt it."

"A momentary weakness, nothing more."

He finally finds the courage to breach the distance between us. "How can you just…turn it off?" His growl rumbles through me, shivering through my flesh, breaking me to my foundation. "I know what I felt, I know what you felt! Please, Morrigan, _please_ don't try to tell me it was _nothing_!"

Where is my will? How does he twist me around his feelings, taking a task needing done, and turning it into - _I cannot love him_. "'Twas _not_ nothing. You saved my life, and I am grateful."

If I cannot be aloof, as duty dictates I cannot, then I will show him what I need from him, what I want from him. I shift close, twining fingers into his sandy hair, press myself close to him. Nipping at his ear, I trace the shell lightly with the tip of my tongue, then murmur, "Shall I show you how grateful I am, Alistair?"

He stumbles back, away, and I follow. Instead of the brilliant red I expect of him, he is pale, eyes wide and terrified.

_Terrified of you._

Why does that hurt? Isn't that exactly what I want him to be? Scared? Beneath me? Weaker than me?

_All he has done, has been for you._

My grip tightens, digging into the chafed skin of his neck, and with a cry, I drop my head between my arms, holding onto him for support.

"Damn you." I can feel my nails bite into his skin, ripping. When he gathers me into his arms, I do not protest, relishing the feel of being cradled, of being cared for.

_I need you too_.

It might as well be his fist clenched so tightly inside my chest. Time stops as he tears out my heart with his love.

oOo

"I cannot do this, Alistair." From the shelter of his arms, I am brave. Brave enough to throw away a brief happiness, knowing it will be worse for what is to come.

His hold tightens before it loosens, the forced ignorance in his voice says all too clearly he know the answer to the questions he is about to ask. "Can't do what, Morrigan?"

"We two, we are…We cannot_…" I do not want this. I do not want to love_. Different, yes, than the disastrous choice to feel kinship with Elissa, but dangerous to me all the same. "This must be ended."

The darkness in his eyes knifes through me, the tension in his grip chills.

"If that's what you want, I guess there isn't much to say." His jaw clenches, his fingertip slides so very gently along my jaw, until he pulls away entirely, hands dropping to his sides. "I'll leave you alone then -"

His pain and confusion crash into me, gnawing at me from the inside out. The swell of his hurt, as though caught within the tangle of a healing spell, his grief is mine, mine his, and I cannot, cannot stand distant. He draws me in unknowing. Ever the shining Knight, he would never give me this, knowing that he gives.

Eyes wide, agony pulsing with each beat of my heart, I clap my hand across his mouth. _I need to stop the words. I need to stop the pain_.

"Maker, Morrigan…" He is breathless with our affliction, ragged claws of loss and fear, welded so tightly as to be inseparable. He is no less scared than I, not just of losing, but of having. I am no more a comfortable choice of lover for him than he for I.

As ever, he is my anchor, even when I deny him, he gathers me close again, showing that he understands better than his blushing words could do.

His lips move against the side of my throat, words vibrating into me, through my soul. "I'm sorry."


	8. Chapter 8

"I pity them, you know." His head rests on my crossed ankles, hazel eyes glazed over, lost in thought. He is looking at me, but he sees nothing, really.

Stroking my spell-warmed fingertips firmly into the cords of muscle of his neck, _they should not be stone, the Gods damned idiot has over done it again_, I try to ease the knots he has created. "Indeed? Willful blindness is now to be considered a pitiable trait, then?"

Canting his head to guide me to a particularly tortured spot, he hums in content, before bothering to reply. "She hasn't shown them who she is. Why would they believe anything but what she tells them?"

"Does not the fact that you, who are _such_ a paragon of goodness, look upon her with such disgust, tell them nothing?"

"Your sarcasm is wasted on me. Just so you know."

_Everything you are is wasted on me, my heart_.

I never thought of silence as heavy before. The lack of sound lays over us like a blanket, closing out the world beyond the firelight, only the silken slide of his skin beneath my fingers tying us to the camp, while the hot threads of my spell tie me into him. He sits inside my soul, more intimate than were he within my flesh. I am no longer capable of holding him away from the snarl of emotions he creates in me, and can only thank the Gods that this connection does not often translate thought.

He tastes my doubts, and I his trepidation.

I soar on his acceptance.

The crackle-snap of shifting embers falling into themselves, a murmur of the slight breeze that carries the soothing strum of Lelianna's lute. Whatever conversations may be occuring cannot be heard from this distance. The ever-present grind of stone joints as Shale moves, the deep thud of her steps.

In the long spaces between breaths, his, mine, the world's, the final questions begin to coalesce. In mutual guilt, in mutual want, in the silence, we sit and smoulder, set fire to each other.

He breaks the quiet between us with a sigh, sitting up to face me. He tugs at his hair, a gesture so familiar in his frustration.

"All right." His breath catches. "I guess I don't know how to ask you this…"

I know what is coming. Over long days, and longer nights, he has started and stopped this conversation many times, always tying his tongue too tightly around his thoughts to get them out. I have tried to be patient, letting him come to me.

_I have been patient._ The hammering of my heart, and the low clench of my belly remind me just how patient I have been.

"It's just...I wanted to wait for the right time. For a time when everything was perfect." His ears burn, but he faces me resolutely.

I feel the corners of my mouth turn up in a witless smile, while letting the tendrils of my spell continue their work, weaving through him, telling him just how ready I am. When he pulls me into his lap, I reach for him again, weaving arms behind his neck, pulling myself close enough to feel his breath against my face.

I catch anything else he may have to say with my lips on his, swallowing his hesitation.

Through cords of magic, the languid heat of him surrounds me, bright and blinding. Even the damaged dark has lessened, giving way over time to my determination. My fingers dance against his skin, causing shudders in his body that spark shimmers in his soul, until he is all, the real world falling away to the pleasure he takes in my touch, to the breathless exhilaration jolting through him as he explores each strand of my feelings for him, celebrating that I failed to turn him away.

He seeps into me, and I find myself giddy, knowing that he has seen my worst, and loves me still.

_Almost. How can I tell him what I intend?_

For now, the future may remain clouded. If only I can see it, it need not intrude on now. We have time, yet, before all is done.

He curls through me, brushing and stroking places in me that should never know another's touch, aided by magic and desire. The seething rapture of this joining wipes blank my mind of anything but him, his scent, his touch, the taste of sweat and _him_, recalled, and I need to relive it. Bodies unmoving, we roil together, until I can barely make out where I end, where he begins.

There are no thoughts in his soul, at this moment there is nothing but need, to give and to take, but I cannot find enough of myself to hesitate, accepting what he offers, gifting what he asks for, until the pressure, pleasure, frenzy builds between us, until there is no us.

He is a haven, engulfing me in heat, the adoration in his eyes entirely for me.

Wordless, we fumble from our clothing, sheltered from the world and prying eyes by screens of brush and canvas.

_This._

I have been waiting, and I never knew. Not a single glimmer of a thought toward what I have been missing.

_This._

'Tis neither perfect, nor painless. Entirely too intense in its brevity, and while my body aches, my heart weeps to be torn from his warmth. Until his arms come around me, half asleep and sated, to fold me into him, breathing deep and steady, holding me as if I belong.

oOo

He wakes to an unfamiliar feel of skin, a body moulded tightly against him, silk and steel, and limbs tangled in his own. He wants to touch, to trace and memorize curves and dips, to see how she reacts when he strokes her, but in her sleep, the Witch has interlocked her fingers with his, holding him captive until she wakes.

He briefly tries to fight what he knows to be a stupid grin, but quickly gives in, marvelling at the rise and fall of her breath, the quiet thump of her heartbeat against his arm, still tightly wrapped around her chest.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N - Holy cow...I'm still working on this one (along with the others not marked as complete...), it is just a bit of a fight. I'm still blaming writer's block (read "I'm lazy").

He dreams of running.

Sometimes he chases, fighting lead legs every step of the way, catching only distant glimpses of his quarry. A quarry that changes.

Flickers of silver armor polished to a shine, malevolent black eyes, and a trail of tainted Warden blood in its wake.

Dragon's scale, with wide spread wings and corrupted eyes, it either ignores him completely, beneath its notice, or sings back to him, begging him to catch it, free it.

Frightened golden eyes, a fleeing woman's form, she beckons him close, vanishing before he can touch her.

Sometimes he flees, the Fade thick around him, heart stuttering with fear.

Loghain's stalking blade, glistening wet and red, trying to finish a task begun in Ostagar, kept from completion by only he (when he wakes, he knows he is not alone, not the only Warden, but waking and sleeping are different worlds).

The Archdemon's roar, chasing him through the twists and turns of the Deep Roads, through the shadowed forests, through the back alleys of Denerim.

Arl Eamon's chiding voice, heavy with disappointment, ever reminding him of _duty_, and _blood lines_, and the worth of the Theirin name. He is almost able to stand firm in Eamon's expectations, ignoring the scraping drag inside his head that _King_ and_ Love_ don't walk hand in hand. Almost.

Until Eamon's face melts into the soft and lovely lines of Elissa's, his rough voice becomes her gentle dulcet tones, and he wakes shuddering, well enough aware of politics to know he wants no part of _that_.

_'Love me,' _she whispers, pulling and tugging at him, trying to trap him in tendrils of her hair, shimmering in uncertain light.

He flees, into the black-feather shade, ducking into the shadows that watch him with scornful golden eyes, that soften only for him.

Even in his dreams, his Witch protects him, a shivering wall of magic and repulsion that keeps at bay the shifty, shifting faces of his fears, as she shelters him in darkness.

oOo

He struggles to rise from sleep, head packed full of wool. In the sparse warmth of his bedroll, he feels something missing, until he remembers Morrigan slipping from his tent just as he tumbled into slumber.

He can't control his scowl, even if she is right, it is better that no one know. He wants to shout out his feelings, and sometimes finds himself humming under his breath on the long walks, captivated by the sway of her leather clad hips as she paces Elissa. But she is right. Their companions may be accepting, even gleeful, but Elissa would not be.

The nobles will gather soon, to determine the fate of the throne, to choose between a bastard and a hero. He has little hope of reprieve, with both the Eamon and Elissa determined he will rule.

The road is hard, even with the luxuries of travelling with the Arl of Redcliffe. Harder because it is more difficult to hide slipping away from the group to find his prickly Witch, and she is not always keen to ply her shapeshifting skills to sneak into his.

Groggy, discontent and dreading the days to come, he buckles on his armor. Denerim is less than two days away.


End file.
